Dorf
by GrinGrin
Summary: What if the Dwarf Noble was born a bit ... off? A bit more ... Dorfy?


_I do not own Dragon Age in any shape or form, nor do I own Dwarf Fortress._

**Dorf**

If you were to ask any of the many nobles in Orzammer who they would prefer as king, if (Ancestor's forbid) King Aeducan returned to the stone, the answers would vary.

Many would voice their agreement on the traditional method of succession. That is, supporting the first-born of the previous king, Trian. Many of these voices would belong to the more conservative nobles, but many of the more military-inclined would also throw in their lot with him.

Bhelen, on the other hand, would gain support from the more radical nobles. The Assembly-members who would prefer to expand economically by broadening trade-routes with the surface would also lend their support.

Debates between these two groups are waged daily, even if only in whispers. But, there is one other choice where the groups' whispers rise into one, great cry of "**NO!**". Tis when some noble, most likely suffering a concussion from the Provings, drunk, insane or some combination of the three, raises the unthinkable thought – that Duran Aeducan might ascend to the throne.

Such a statement is rather unhealthy to utter out-loud, and many a lord has woken up in strange places with a splitting headache, no memory of the previous night and a wide variety of acquaintances behaving coldly towards him.

* * *

Now, if one were to ask the same question at the Proving Grounds, one would get one unanimous cry of support for the middle child.

"Did you see how he fights?"

"Fearless, I tell you."

"Just what we need, less politicians, more warriors."

And a warrior he was, in spirit and deed, if not in name. But he was certainly no soldier.

Undisciplined, violent, stronger and faster than most other dwarves, he had cast any and all of his challengers into the dust. A whirling dervish of his favoured handaxes put him above most other nobles.

You see, most nobles who style themselves 'warriors' fought carefully. Protected by shields and heavy armor, squires and bodyguards. Not so with Duran. He'd came to the proving unarmoured and alone, leaving his bodyguard in the stands, clad only in a simple tunic and armed only with his burning spirit, a flask of whatever gut-rot he favoured that week and his twin handaxes.

And it was those handaxes that drew so many stares. Expertly crafted, made from Veridium with blades of Silverite, it menaced any of Duran's opponents not only with their curved edges, but also the wickedly sharp spikes that stood one each atop the haft. Many a spectator had flinched in sympathy when those wicked points had slammed into and through chainmail into the vulnerable flesh underneath.

But what drew more stares were the rumours that those axes were hand-crafted by none other than the prince himself. They certainly didn't conform to any of the other smith's works, that was true. No tell-tale smith's mark, no fineries, no embellishments. Those were weapons, through-and-through, made for battle, not show.

And how they flourished in those talented hands. Shields knocked aside, armour pierced, opponents left bleeding, egos crushed. It was a beautiful sight for any warrior to see. It was _battle_, not the glorified duels the other nobles so favoured.

None of the spectators would even forget the day Piotin Aeducan was absolutely crushed by the prince. It was a terrible battle. Piotin's favoured tactic, of just smashing through whatever shields or armour his opponent wielded, was utterly useless against someone who had no such protection. The prince danced around the Silverite-clad noble, avoiding blows, it seemed, with more luck than skill.

The prince had walked away that day, defeating the Horns of the Army, with not a scratch. Piotin 's masterfully crafted armour was left a wreck, scored with what seemed like hundreds of shallow cuts. His greataxe had been broken, the shaft broken by a swift stomp. His helmet was battered into a new form by the backs of the axes. He was covered in blood, all his own. And his ego had died somewhere along the path to his current state.

If you asked around, smiles would be hidden and oh-so-innocent voices would ring with _"no-one deserved that"_.

Afterwards, the prince would always stumble back to Tapsters and the drink would flow like water. He was the first to start and the last to depart. When asked about the tremendous fortitude of the prince, the Corra could only shrug and say "I reckon he runs on alcohol, much like we run on water. It's the only thing that makes sense."

* * *

AN: So yeah, basically the Dwarf Noble Origin as a dorf.

For the uninitiated, a dorf is a Dwarf from the hugely complicated and very, very enjoyable game Dwarf Fortress. Imagine alcoholic, hair-trigger psychopaths with a strange penchant of being very, very good craftsmen. It's not quite true, but it'll do for the purposes of this story.

Which would not be too long. I regard this as a one-shot for now, but there exists the distinct possibility that I might expand on this. Do note that I doubt it would be much longer than, say, three chapters, so there's that.

Also, I haven't classified this as a crossover due to the fact that it isn't. Only one character gets some traits from DF, so there's that as well.

Read, enjoy and review.

~GrinGrin

Written: 15/06/2014  
Posted: 15/06/2014


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